I Have Nothing To Say

So listen up. If you’ve read my drivel for any length of time you might remember the randomanalia posts. Well really--all of them are random to a great degree but I used to pile on a huge load of irreleventia from time to time when I didn’t have the focus for a vaguely more cogent yarn. 2013 has seen me thus far mired in a zero bandwidth and nil focus stew pot when it comes to telling stories so I figured I’d drop a poorly edited pile on y’all this morning.

This was desert. Last night. Desert last night at the home of a guy who like me, has a delightful daughter and an affection for Alden shoes. He also has a lovely wife and a really cool son. Oh, and a network of eclectic, smart, grounded and delightful friends. A gaggle of whom shared in the fellowship with my dinner hosts last night. I’d never met face-to-face my Alden pal till last night. We’ve threatened to have a drink together for a year now but you know how it goes. Life is busy. But I was determined to not let anything get in the way of last night’s dinner invitation from Alden Guy.

So why do I share this? Because most of the reasons I continue to blog are the reasons I did so in the first place and they are predominantly superficial. But there’s also been an anything but superficial result of this blog. I’ve met some really great people and I’m gratified to know that some of them will be lifelong friends... the kind of friends who will take your call at 3am if you need them. I’d like to think that I’d do the same for them. Ask Toad.

My blessed but manic life isn’t special. My joys and challenges can easily be trumped by others who are also trying to navigate their day-to-day journeys with gratitude and sanity. But the odyssey of my mom’s illness is one for the record books and as I’ve said before, I will write about it somewhere—but not here. I know way too much about healthcare to just accept some of the shit that has been passed off as the care continuum for geriatric chronic disease and end of life management. My humble advice to you is if you have a family member who is deeply mired in this goat rodeo of a healthcare system we have in the States, you better find an informed advocate to question every damn thing done for you beloved. This saga has wrung me and my sibs out...emotionally, physically and, if we had any, intellectually.

On a happier note, my mom is lucid, cogent and fighting daily to get well enough to go home. It is amazing to see and we hold no false hope about how long we may have her. And if she can get home for even a few months—with daily nursing care—it will be fantastic. All I know is that if she dies tomorrow, the recent moments that I’ve had with her…moments where she and I have been able to once again have reflective, tender and deep conversations are gifts of inestimable value. Why? Because in March we took her off the respirator so that she could die yet now, she’s flipping the bird at the physical therapy people who are putting her through rigorous paces. Life is rich. And I swear to God that till now, I never saw my mom flip anyone off. Ever. When I was growing up. Shut up.

So let’s get to the superficial stuff. I’ve had two jackets awaiting a first fitting at my man Puerto Rykken’s Paul Stuart atelier since last December. That’s how damn crazy my world’s been. So last Tuesday I finally bit the bullet and did an Amtrak up and back in the same day to get fitted as well as drop in on a couple of other Gotham destinations. My go-to navy blazer is so ratty that I sorely needed to replace it. Now I have other ones—my blazers see more action than anything else in or out of my closet but my go-to sees the most combat. Instead of replacing it identically, I opted for hacking pockets versus three open patch. It’s gonna be strong. Trust me. Or not. I don’t give a damn ‘cause you ain’t gonna be wearin’ it. Shut up.

And my summer 2013 jacket, which based on the delay in getting it fitted, I’ll be able to wear for maybe three weeks, is a linen-wool-silk contrivance that’s gonna be sublime. The coloring is really gonna enhance my jaundice and the cut? Hugely complimentary to my alcoholic malnourished attenuatiousness.

I'm going to write a story about Made-to-Measure, Custom and Bespoke processes and the differences. Don't ask me when I'll get around to it. I have no idea. But I can tell you unequivocally that what my man Rykken is doing for me over at Paul Stuart is anything but some demi-ass MTM sleight of hand. It's as close to Savile Row paper pattern cutting as I'll ever need. 

Three-two roll—peak lapels—hacking flaps including ticket—double vented. With a half-vinyl top. Bam!

So after my Rykken fitting and before the train slog home, I dropped in on the Belgian Mother Church to see what, if anything was new. And I defined new as a pair of monochromatic calfskin navies. And I ordered another monochromatic-contrivance that’ll be here probably around Labor Day if I’m lucky. Stay tuned. Or not.

Oh, and thanks to those over at my tumblr who helped me select that next round of kilim slips from Pammie-Jane over at Nomad Ideas. Typically, I ignored the feedback of the majority and did my own thang. And these thangs I like.

Anyone care to guess what trad purveyor occupied this space for years?  I passed it in midtown last week and once again had that pang of regret for having missed their salad days. Hint? "GTH Mother Church."

Let me close this out with an update on one L. F. G. She finished the school year having made nothing less than all A’s. She’s becoming such a lovely young adult and it’s killing me every step of the way. Y’all told me it was typical-predictable-boilerplate and text book. But I still don’t have to like it.

But I know she loves me. The latest evidence includes her agreement to take me to the Toy Soldier Shop in D.C. and select my Father’s Day present(s).  

She squealed with glee when she was younger as I’d sit on the front steps of the shop while she and Mister Neil narrowed down my broad choices and boxed and wrapped them. This most recent round of “pick daddy’s present” was at least tolerated with stoic elegance.

Ok. That’s enough drivel for now. Onward. Kinda. With two Brooks Brethren striped BDs that were on sale.

ADG II